


Sunny Diposish

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Apartment Building AU, Gen, Humanized AU, M/M, and then swap 'em around, because I guess the only thing to do when you have eldritch beings from beyond mortality, disposition swap AU, is to make them mundane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: He doesn’t find his cheerful, sunshiney neighbor enchanting.  Not even a little.*** An apartment building AU





	1. Bless the Rains

The neighbor is dancing again.

He watches through the sheers covering the living room window. It was getting on to twilight and in the bright kitchen on the top floor across the apartment complex, the figure of his neighbor is clearly backlit as he wiggles back and forth along his counters. Something was cooking on the stove, or perhaps in the oven, and the neighbor’s hips tick back and forth along with whatever trashy music had caught his attention this week as he assembled the finishing touches.

The neighbor is a good dancer. Vibrant and expressive, but completely unstudied. It was a good thing the neighbor lived all the way on the other side of the building – he’d never stand to have such a man as a upstairs neighbor, considering how frequently the man seemed to dance.

He tries to turn his attention back to _60 Minutes_ , but it’s a lost cause. Across the way, the neighbor pulls a tray out of the oven and sets it down on the stovetop, whirling around to face the other counter and futz with something out of sight. The neighbor’s motions grow even more vigorous, hips swirling in a way that must really be something to watch up close.

Incorrigible. The man’s sixty years old if he’s a day, and he’s still bouncing around like… well, whatever. Something ridiculous. Just because he looks fifty and works out thrice a week…

He takes a drag of his cigarette and frowns, reaching out to slowly pull the window open. The neighbor has his kitchen window open and he’d swear it’s "Africa" he hears playing on the stereo, augmented by the neighbor’s beautiful clear voice singing about solitary company. To be fair, it’s probably not so much genuinely loud as it’s just conveniently carried on the wind between their apartments. He tilts his head a little to listen to it.

The neighbor stops moving, coming to stand at the window. For a second he stops breathing, wondering if the neighbor could see him watching through the sheers, but the neighbor is looking out at the splendid sunset boiling in the sky over to the west. They’d had storms earlier in the afternoon, and the pink-red-golden sky was yielding very slowly to the lilac-lavender of the oncoming night.

He hopes it will clear up soon. They were supposed to have the full moon tonight.

The neighbor watches the sunset for a moment – _there’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_ – his shoulders wiggling. Then the neighbor turns his head to look unerringly at the window behind which he sits, smoking. He freezes. It’s too late to do anything about it now, but the smoke must be leaking out of the window and giving his position away.

The neighbor looks at his window and smiles. He only starts to breath again when the neighbor pulls his head back in without waving. The neighbor always waves when he catches sight of him in the living room.

He pretends to look at the television, watching the neighbor wrap up the song and disappear from the window. The lights go down.

He lifts an eyebrow, stretching his legs out before him. Strange. The neighbor doesn’t usually leave things to sit just on the counter like he left that tray, or leave the window wide open.

He gets his explanation when his doorbell rings, not sixty seconds later. He growls to himself and gets to his feet, crushing the cigarette out in the ashtray before heading to the door.

The neighbor is standing outside the door with a sweet smile framed by a dark grey, fussily-trimmed beard and moustache. He holds a basket of sugar-dusted madeleines in his hands. His big, pale eyes are full of good humor and vivacity behind his chic eyeglasses. “Good evening, Enoch!”

“Mr. Bernhart,” he says to the neighbor, frowning down at him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“My poor math skills,” Mr. Bernhart replies, shrugging twiggy shoulders over the basket and not looking nearly sheepish enough to be convincing. “Afraid I made a bigger batch by accident. You wouldn’t mind taking these off my hands, would you?”

Enoch fights down a twitch in the corner of his lips. “All right. What’s the favor?”

Mr. Bernhart gives him a wide-eyed look. “Favor? Well, only that you’d be so good as to lighten my breadbox’s load.”

“In that case…” Enoch begins to shut the door in the man’s face. Mr. Bernhart _tch_ s but stands there with a slight moue on his mouth, calling Enoch’s bluff. Enoch opens the door back up a little, determined to look unimpressed.

“Tease,” Mr. Bernhart scolds. “Yes, fine, I do want to beg a favor from you. I have to be in Philadelphia next week. Would you mind coming in to look over my plants while I’m gone?”

Enoch rolls his eyes. “You know, there are people you can hire to keep an eye on exotic plants–”

“Yes, but none will know it as well as you do. You kept my fly traps alive for three long weeks and I really think my plumeria has decided it wants to live with you. It won’t respond to me. I think my hands are too cold.”

Mr. Bernhart holds out a hand, apparently for inspection. Enoch doesn’t take it, grimacing instead.

“Hmm. Fine. I’ll keep an eye on the greenery.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Bernhart smiles. In his mouth, Enoch pushes his tongue against the edges of his front teeth, before setting his molars together again. “You’re an angel. My grandnephews might drop by to pick up the mail while I’m away, but they know you and won’t be startled if you bump into one another.”

“You could teach them to take care of plants,” Enoch points out.

“You can’t teach a 14-year-old boy anything,” Mr. Bernhart replies. “And Gregory’s not yet seven. They’d either drown everything or leave it all to wither.”

“Why Philadelphia?”

“Limited engagement. Hadestown. Yours truly in the role of the ruler of Hell.” Mr. Bernhart shrugs again. “I guess they spotted me as being the right kind of merciless authoritarian. Can’t imagine why.”

It was baffling, actually. Mr. Bernhart wasn’t much of a stickler. He even smiled at the way that assistant of his groused and grumbled like a dog, and Enoch would never put up with that. If Clara had ever dared to take such a tone with him, he’d have her out of the will in a heartbeat.

Enoch shakes his head. “Break a leg, then.”

“Thank you. Say, you wouldn’t like to come back for dinner, would you?” Mr. Bernhart asks, nodding his head back down the hall. “I made ravioli.”

The twitch in the corner of Enoch’s mouth won. “More math trouble?”

“I should get a calculator,” Mr. Bernhart sighs. “And I do have some cigars that are reaching their critical phase, and I’d hate to see them go to waste in any way…”

Enoch considers his neighbor for a moment and holds a hand out for the basket of madeleines. Mr. Bernhart passes it over. “Let me change my shirt–”

“Oh, I think you’re just fine–”

“And I’ll bring over a bottle of wine.”

Mr. Bernhart grins. “You spoil me!”

“Mmhm.”

“White, I think.”

Enoch lifts an eyebrow at him and gives him a stern look. Mr. Bernhart smiles and laces his fingers together, holding them down by his hips.

“I’ll just wait outside,” Mr. Bernhart says serenely.

“No. Come in. It’ll be half a minute.”

Mr. Bernhart steps in, still humming that he’d bless the rains down in Africa. Enoch heads to his bedroom to put on something a little nicer for supper, and maybe to quickly trim his goatee a bit and brush his teeth. Not that he’s got any cause to. Sixty years old, works out, dances like a twenty-something… their acquaintance is completely based on the happenstance of Enoch having a green thumb. Doesn’t signify a bit. Not that he wants it to.

In the living room, he hears Mr. Bernhart turn the television off, as if it were his own, and start messing with his radio. Rock and roll starts playing. _Come On Eileen._

Hearing the king-presumptive of the underworld barely keep his voice down as he’s confessing his thoughts verge on dirty, Enoch has to drown his smile in the bathroom sink.


	2. Wirt and Greg Stay Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parents need holidays, too.

If they ever did a DNA test, Wirt would place pretty goods odds on the probability of his Great Uncle Herod being related to Greg’s dad by blood and not only by marriage. The resemblance of disposition between his Great Uncle and Greg was too marked to be a coincidence.

When he woke up in the morning, it was to a flood of radiant sunlight pouring into the guest room window. Wirt grumbled and flopped onto his belly, stretching out all his limbs like a starfish on the squishy double bed. Greg was gone. He dozed for a few minutes more, but the light had him awake before he could retreat into unconsciousness to any respectable degree, and he rolled out of bed with a dry mouth and an empty belly. 

In the living room, Greg was sitting on one of the chartreuse sofas in his pajamas and eating a slice of cinnamon sugar toast. Their Great Uncle sat beside him, reading the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times with his regular eyeglasses at one stage on his nose and his reading glasses perched just beyond them. He read with his head craned back and his lips slightly tucked into his mouth, as if they would get in his line of vision otherwise. NPR was playing on the stereo. It was an old episode of Car Talk.

Wirt’s brother and uncle both looked up at the noise of Wirt’s approach, heads moving and smiles appearing in unison. It’d be eerie if it weren’t so… well. It was still a little bit eerie.

Wirt blinked and used his tongue to open his mouth.

“Good morning, Wirt,” Great Uncle Herod said. He pushed the pair of reading glasses up onto the top of his head and nudged his regular glasses further up his nose. “We were just about to wake you. It’s about 7:30.”

“Muh.”

“Indeed. I’m filling in for Mr. Langtree at church today, trying to keep the sopranos in line. Do you boys want to go with me this morning, or do you feel you are right with your creator for the moment?”

“I’m good,” Greg said. “I want to stay here with Wirt.”

“Wirt? Do you mind keeping an eye on your brother for an hour or so?”

Wirt scowled a little. It’d be nice if Great Uncle Herod would take Greg along and let Wirt have a quiet morning. He played babysitter enough at home, so what was the point of going away for the weekend if he’d just be made to do it all over again?

Well, going to church would be no solution. He’d just be expected to keep Greg quiet the whole time.

“Fine,” Wirt mumbled. “I’ll do it.”

“Splendid.” Great Uncle Herod started putting the paper back together. He stood up, dusting some suspiciously cinnamony crumbs off of his lap. “I should be back around eleven o’clock. We’ll go have ourselves something more substantial to eat, shall we?”

“Can we go to the place with the red booths?” Greg asked. “They have pancakes!”

“We’ll let Wirt decide,” Great Uncle Herod smiled. “I’m going to jump in the shower. Follow all such common-sense safety regulations as your parents have taught you until I come back, hmm? And have something to eat, Wirt, you’re a wraith.”

Great Uncle Herod ruffled Greg’s hair and breezed past Wirt with a touch on his shoulder. Wirt pretended to examine the spread of toast and toppings on the coffee table – God, his uncle was weird, who put blackstrap molasses on toast? – and waited until he heard his uncle’s bedroom door click shut before diving into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. Mom didn’t let him drink it and he’d never asked Great Uncle Herod if he could have any, but what they didn’t discuss probably wouldn’t hurt him as long as he didn’t drink enough to get all jittery again. Mom said that Uncle Herod made coffee so strong you had to eat it with a knife and fork, so he’d have to be pretty careful with the dose.

He walked out into the living room sipping a cup of creamer with about a tablespoon of coffee in it. He could hear the shower running further away in the apartment. “Ahh. That’s a good cup a’joe.”

“Wirt, I think we should go to the restaurant with the red booths,” Greg said thoughtfully, shaking cinnamon sugar onto another slice of toast.

“No way. I want to go to the coffee shop.” They had black-and-white pictures on the walls and none of the furniture matched. They played a lot of jazz. Wirt loved it there.

“But they only serve eggs!”

“They serve croissants and bialys, too. You like croissants.”

Greg squinched up his nose. Wirt knew he hadn’t heard the end of it. He plopped down on the other sofa. “Hmm… Unkie Harry said that we could go to the aquarium today and pet the manta rays!”

“Great,” Wirt grumbled. Maybe he could flake off and wander around in the Barnes and Noble while they got all seawatery. The bookstore was three stories tall and they’d never find him in the poetry section.

Wirt fished the Sudoku out of the newspaper and began filling in the puzzle with a pencil whose eraser had gone hard as a diamond. Greg picked up his coloring book from its spot on the floor and began paging through it like a magazine. Dust motes floated in the sunlight.

The Car Talk guys brayed like donkeys. Wirt had always liked their laughs.

In the middle of a caller trying to reproduce the noise of their car backfiring, the front doorbell rang.

“Can you get that?” Wirt muttered into his cup of creamer.

“Mom doesn’t want me answering the door anymore, remember?”

“That’s because you almost switched our cable service provider.”

“Hey! He made a pretty persuasive argument, and anyway we’re not happy with the level of service we’re getting–”

The doorbell rang again, longer this time.

“Pfuh. Fine. I’ll get it.” Wirt pushed himself up from the sofa. It was probably just Great Uncle Herod’s assistant. That guy came around at all weird hours and such, always scowling and carrying bundles of produce or papers. Wirt still didn’t know precisely what he was good for.

He undid all the locks – Greg wouldn’t have been able to reach them anyway – and opened the door. 

“Hi, Mr. Gardinerrr.” Wirt didn’t mean to drag it out, but his brain stopped working from sheer mortal panic. Mr. Gardiner wasn’t on the other side of the door. His uncle’s creepy neighbor was.

Mr. Bowers loomed over him, filling up the doorway and then some with sheer bulk. He looked more or less as he always looked: huge, tired, and menacing, and when he saw Wirt his flinty expression turned to solid granite. 

Wirt’s jaw worked up and down a few times. He wheezed a little.

In the hall, Mr. Bowers shifted his weight.

“…Gregory,” he said. It took Wirt a moment to realize this was by way of a greeting.

“I’m not Greg,” Wirt squeaked. “I’m… I’m… the other one.”

Mr. Bowers grunted. “Is your uncle home?”

“Yes! He’s– he is. He’s home.”

Mr. Bowers stared Wirt down. Wirt’s soul made another feeble attempt at leaving his body. “Are you sure? Usually I hear him by now.”

Greg leaned forward on the couch to look at the door. “Hi, Mr. Bowers!”

Mr. Bowers craned his head into the apartment and looked at Greg. “Good morning.”

“Unkie Harry’s in the bathroom. D’you wanna come in?”

Mr. Bowers turned his head to glance down at Wirt. Wirt would’ve sworn the man’s neck made a grinding sound. “I might wait a few minutes, if it’s all right with the doorman.”

Heart screaming in his ears, Wirt’s arms moved without input from his brain and pulled the door further open. Mr. Bowers stepped inside and began to move towards the living room. Wirt wished he wasn’t still wearing his pajamas. They had turtles on them and he wore them ironically, but now they just made him feel like a little kid.

From his seat on the sofa, Greg wiggled his toes in the attached pajama feet. “Are you here to take care of the plants?”

Mr. Bowers sat down on the sofa across from Greg. Wirt hovered near the front door, wanting to go beat down his uncle’s door and drag him out – anything to get a buffer between him and Mr. Bowers. “Your uncle told me he has some new ones.”

“Man likes a plant,” Greg nodded solemnly. Wirt could tell that Greg was mimicking his dad, but since he couldn’t possibly get the reference, Mr. Bowers stared a little.

“Hmm,” Mr. Bowers said. They were all silent for a few moments. The Car Talk guys droned on. Wirt’s skin began to itch. Finally the water noise from the master bathroom cut out. 

Wirt almost fell over. Help was on the way. He began scootching closer to the living room. Greg got himself yet another piece of toast.

“Are you with your uncle for the whole holiday weekend?” Mr. Bowers asked at last.

“Yep!” Greg chirped. Wirt both wished and dreaded that Greg would elaborate, but he just crammed the new piece of toast into his mouth and smiled.

Mr. Bowers nodded slowly. “How is school?”

Gregory squinched up his nose. “Ugh, school. Kids don’t learn much these days.”

Mr. Bowers huffed a breath. “Don’t you?”

“Nope! Just a lot of sitting around, getting our heads filled with fluff – that’s what the old people say. I don’t think I’ve seen any bags of fluff at school. But Wirt gets to play in band!”

“I don’t play in band, Greg,” Wirt mumbled.

“Not yet, maybe. But you’re going to try out, right? You promised Unkie Harry you would.”

“What instrument?” Mr. Bowers asked. 

“Clarinet,” Wirt admitted numbly. He sat down on the sofa next to his brother, not too close, and tried not to bounce his knee.

Mr. Bowers tilted his head. “That’s a tricky instrument to play.”

“Y-Yeah,” Wirt croaked. 

Silence. Mr. Bowers drummed his fingers on the arm of the loveseat. He took up some two thirds of the sofa. Wirt started to feel light-headed and saw dots in his vision before he finally remembered to breathe.

“Exactly how are you all related to one another?” Mr. Bowers asked.

“Uh. He’s our uncle,” Greg said, sounding a little confused. Wirt ground his teeth together, hoping Mr. Bowers wouldn’t look at him. 

No dice. Mr. Bowers slowly lifted his eyebrows.

“He married my mom’s aunt,” Wirt mumbled. 

Mr. Bowers eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open a little. “Ah. He never mentioned being a widower.”

“A what?” Greg asked.

“A man with a dead wife,” Mr. Bowers gruffed.

“Aunt Ginny’s not dead,” Greg said. He looked at Wirt. “Is she?”

“No! Uh. I don’t know. We don’t… she doesn’t live around here.” 

“Hmmm,” Mr. Bowers rumbled. His frown looked a little distracted.

Finally, finally, his uncle’s bedroom door opened. 

“Did I hear the doorbell? I wasn’t expecting Bartholomew until the evening…” 

Great Uncle Herod walked into the living room with his hands full of the unknotted tie around his neck. He glanced up from the tangle of satin in his fingers and immediately did a double-take, a great big sunshiney smile breaking over his face.

“Why, Enoch!” Great Uncle Herod exclaimed. “Good morning! What a lovely surprise!”

Wirt liked his great uncle well-enough but there was no escaping the fact that he was totally and completely nuts. And Greg was the exact same way. It had to be hereditary.

Mr. Bowers shifted a little on the sofa. “Mr. Bernhart.”

“You almost caught me in my pajamas. What brings you here so early?”

“Just to see the plants. You said you had a few new ones?”

“Yes, I did. Can I pour you a cup of coffee?” Great Uncle Herod cast Wirt a teasing look. “Assuming there’s any left?”

“I’ll pour it,” Wirt croaked, getting up. Damn, coffee! He should’ve thought of that. He could’ve run to the kitchen and shinnied out the window. Sure, they were eleven storeys up, but it beat staying in the living room.

“Thank you, Wirt,” Great Uncle Herod said. “Cream and sugar.”

“No,” Mr. Bowers rumbled. Wirt sat back down before he knew what he was doing. “No coffee. Thanks. I won’t stay. I think you’re in the middle of something.”

Great Uncle Herod tossed the fistful of undone necktie up towards his face with a sigh. It flew like a sad, long strip of shimmery silver and slapped back down against his chest.

“Oh, yes, I’m afraid so. Not my usual ensemble, hmm? You just caught me on my way out. Choir-wrangling for my sins.” Great Uncle Herod turned to look in the foyer mirror and try to tie the tie properly. “And we’re doing ‘Taste and See’ today, which I’ve always liked because I think it’s both charming and entirely natural, that the holy host and body of our redeemer would be made entirely with organic ingredients and contain no artificial sweeteners, preservatives, or flavorings.”

Mr. Bowers stared. Wirt stared, too, and then stared more as his uncle let out a high, airy little laugh that was nothing like his usual short sharp bark. What…?

Mr. Bowers emitted a thoughtful hum. It rumbled. “You don’t bring your nephews to church?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. They can do what they want.”

Mr. Bowers got to his feet. “Right, then. Another time.”

“Absolutely! In fact…” Great Uncle Herod turned and smiled with his teeth. “I’m heading out now but I’ll be back in just a little while. We were thinking about going out for an early lunch.”

Wirt felt the icy hand of dread wrap itself around his heart and begin to squeeze. He tried to blink out an S-O-S message to his uncle that Mr. Bowers wouldn’t see.

Great Uncle Herod tilted his head. “Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

Mr. Bowers did not immediately say “No.” Wirt didn’t like that.

“Thanks,” Mr. Bowers said slowly. “But I can’t. I’m going to be busy.”

“Oh, of course, of course. Well, if you want to pop by later this evening, we’ll all be around. Stop by for a cocktail and I’ll acquaint you with my new acquisitions.”

Mr. Bowers nodded his head once. “Fine. Six o’clock?”

“Perfection. We’ll look forward to it!”

Mr. Bowers kind of squeezed his mouth and headed for the door. Wirt watched him go, relief and dread mingling in his blood. Ugh, why did he have to come back? He obviously didn’t like Great Uncle Herod very much. Couldn’t he just blow him off, the way Wirt sometimes shut Greg down?

Great Uncle Herod opened the door for Mr. Bowers and said a cheerful goodbye. Wirt only let out a breath when he heard Mr. Bowers’ heavy footsteps fade down the hall.

“Oh, Wirt, Wirt,” Great Uncle Herod sighed, fussing with his tie again. “You really shouldn’t stare at him like he’s about to axe-murder you.”

Wirt snapped upright. “I don’t–”

“You certainly do. He doesn’t bite, you know. The man’s an absolute pussycat. I wouldn’t keep inviting him around if he weren’t.”

Wirt scowled. “He sure looks like an axe-murderer. Or at least like he’d like to axe-murder us all.”

“Tch-tch, what a stereotype. We all know Bartholomew looks much more like an axe-murderer. Enoch… well, I don’t know. A strangler, would you say?”

“Aww, he’d break just Wirt like a twig,” Greg chimed in.

Great Uncle Herod snapped his fingers. 

“That’s it! Precisely right. Break us all like twigs. One hand on either side of your belly button and… crack!” He mimicked the motion with his own hands and grinned as if he were very funny.

Wirt folded his arms. “Pfuh. He’d have to catch me, first. He can break you two. I’d just climb out the window.”

“An excellent strategy, Wirt. I’m glad to hear you’re developing strong creative problem-solving skills. And Enoch certainly won’t have to wait long for my death, because I’ll end up throttling myself if I can’t get this– darn– tie to– cooperate!” 

Great Uncle Herod made a flourishing gesture with his hands and the strip of silver satin promptly fell open on his chest. 

“Blast. A cravat today, then. Wirt?”

“Yeah?”

“Pour me a go-cup of coffee and you can have the rest of the pot.”

Wirt hopped to his feet.


	3. Pep

“These are for you.”

Enoch frowned down at the man standing in the hallway.  The man standing in the hallway frowned up at Enoch.  Between them, the man in standing in the hallway had thrust a wicker basket full of sun-warmed red and green bell peppers out for inspection.

“I didn’t order anything,” Enoch said slowly.  What was this stranger’s game?  Enoch didn’t get gifts.

“No, but they’re for you.  Courtesy of your neighbor.”  He jerked a thumb towards the far end of the hall.  "He wanted them sent while he's away."

“Who are you?”

The man standing in the hallway twisted his mouth, annoyed.  “Bernhart’s man,” he gruffed.

Oh, his _man_ , was he.  Enoch didn’t let his face move.

“You’re Bartholomew,” Enoch said.  “He’s mentioned you.”

Bartholomew’s scowl deepened.  Enoch wondered who that snarl was really for.  “He does that.  Take the peppers.”

Enoch didn’t move.  “Kind of him to offer.  I don’t think I knew he was going to be gone this week.”

“He’s out ‘til after the holiday.  Take the peppers.”

Bernhart’s man was probably not much younger than Bernhart himself, if Enoch was going to be any judge, but he looked older.  The man wore a John Deere cap and a flannel shirt, with the sleeves unbuttoned and shoved up his arms.  He had a grizzled look around the face, caused by a pair of gray muttonchops slinking sullenly down his jaws.  

Not what Enoch would’ve picked for Mr. Bernhart, not if someone had put a gun to his head and made him pick.  

“What do you do for him?” Enoch asked.  “I’ve never known anyone who’s needed a manservant before.”

Bartholomew bristled.  “I’m not his manservant.  I do odd jobs.  Community garden.  Groceries.  Drive him.  Sometimes help him read.  He’s blind.”

Enoch lifted his eyebrows.  If he didn’t much mistake himself, he was being bullshitted.  Was this really the line they had cooked up to explain themselves?  “He’s not blind.”

“Legally blind,” Bartholomew explained.  “There’s a difference.”

“He runs outside.”

Bartholomew shrugged.  “A man can be blind and not particularly smart.  Take the peppers.”

“Easy, now.  No need to wax rhapsodic on your respect for your employer,” Enoch grumbled.

Bartholomew pushed the peppers through the last straining inches of air and jabbed the basket against Enoch’s soft stomach.  Enoch took the peppers.

Odd jobs, huh.  Wonder what that was about.  At the very least Enoch knew Bartholomew didn’t live with Mr. Bernhart.  Bartholomew didn’t seem the type of man who’d like the type of man Mr. Bernhart was.  Maybe he didn’t.  Maybe Mr. Bernhart did all the work.  Maybe Mr. Bernhart liked them mean.

Enoch didn't like any of those ideas.  And wait, wait.  What about the (ex-? estranged? eloping?) wife?  Hmm.  Complicated.

“I'm glad he has someone keeping an eye on him, then,” Enoch said slowly.  "He seems easy to work for."

A muscle in Bartholomew's jaw pinged and he glanced at the floor.  He looked uncomfortable.  "He's all right."

Enoch recognized that species of discomfort and didn't like it at all.  “Although a reliable taxi driver would be just as good for him.”

Bartholomew gave him a scowl.  "It’s his money.”

“Let me get you a tip.”

Bartholomew curled his upper lip and stomped towards the elevators.  Enoch watched Bartholomew go and closed his door when the elevator doors dinged shut behind Bernhart's man.

Blind.  Really?  It was hard to credit.  Mr. Bernhart certainly never gave hints that he was in any way impaired, but then… it would explain a few things.  Enoch had always wondered how Mr. Bernhart had managed to keep smiling so brilliantly in the very teeth of one of Enoch’s Don’t Talk To Me scowls.  

Hmm.

The peppers were picture-perfect, Enoch thought to himself.  They’d probably be very sweet.

* * *

Enoch and Clara had breakfast at the little bakery up the street and returned to his apartment for the inevitable protracted leave-taking that caused so many otherwise-pleasant encounters to leave an awkward taste in one’s mouth.  Clara didn’t like his apartment but she liked leaving him alone in it even less, and she communicated her disdain like a cat, refusing to touch any of the furniture but settling territorially by a small portion by the living room window, apparently to make sure he would think of her whenever he looked at that spot.

There was nothing more to say of business, personal interest, or pleasure, so Enoch began picking through the paper he’d purchased on their venture outdoors.  If he ignored the girl long enough, eventually she’d leave.

“What’s the deal with the foxy grandpa in your lobby?” Clara asked.

“He’s a great-uncle,” Enoch mumbled.

Clara’s head whipped around.  “What?”

“What?” Enoch replied, briefly glancing up from the crossword puzzle.  “I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you.”

Clara narrowed her blue-green eyes at him in a move she’d somehow inherited from her mother and turned her attention back to the window.  “The old guy in running gear who accosted me when I first came in.  You must’ve seen him.  He’s kind of conspicuously good-looking?”

“Did he really accost you?”

Clara shifted her weight.  Enoch knew it from the way her shadow moved.  “Well.  Said hello, he’d seen me around but never introduced himself, did I live in the building, so on and so forth.”

“Name?”

“Bernhart.  Didn’t get the first name.  Not sure he mentioned it.”

Enoch hmmed.  

“Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his deal?”

“I’m not sure he has one, to the extent that you seem to think he might,” Enoch replied.  34 across was either ‘TOSCA’ or ‘SCALA,’  but he was using ink and didn’t want to risk it.

“I don’t like chatty people,” Clara murmured to herself.  

Enoch hmmed again and fell silent.  Clara wedged her hip up onto the window ledge and peered down at the driveway below.

“Oh,” she said after a long moment.  “Here he comes.”

Enoch clenched his jaws around a silent cuss word and tightened his brows.  

“Good stride,” Clara murmured.  “I don’t think he’s as old as I thought.  Sort of looks… what, you think?  Maybe fifty?”

“He’s sixty-four,” Enoch mumbled.  Clara’s eyes were upon him, and Enoch didn’t like it, but he liked the happy little voice that floated up from the street even less.

“Hello?  Enoch?  Are you home?” the voice cried.

Damn it.

“Are you home, Enoch?” Clara asked dryly.

Enoch rose from the dining table.  “Open the window.  If he’s spotted you, he’ll just keep hailing until someone responds.”  

“Good way to get a flower pot dumped on your head,” Clara muttered, struggling with the sash.

“I don’t think it’d faze him.”  Enoch crowded against Clara and peered out the open window.  Down on the street, Mr. Bernhart looked up at him with exercise-brightened eyes and a dazzling smile.  His chest was heaving from his run and his long bare legs swayed restlessly, unwilling to be so suddenly stopped.

“Good morning!” Mr. Bernhart cried.  He was still panting.  He seized one of his legs by the ankle and began stretching the quadricep.  “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad moment?”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bernhart,” Enoch rumbled.

“I was wondering if you’d mind coming over for a little while this morning to fill me in on what the plants were like while I was gone.”

Clara was looking at him.  Enoch grimaced.

“You’re back now.  You can see them for yourself.”

“Yes, of course, most of them.  But just yesterday I’ve inherited one or two new specimens and I’m a little at sea with their unique needs.  I don’t mean to take too much of your time, when you’re already doing me a considerable favor by taking care of all the others while I’m away, but if you have just a moment to take a look, I’d appreciate any input at all!  Of course I don’t mean to be underfoot, if you’re busy this morning.  I only wondered—”

Enoch waved a hand, trying to waft away a little of the chatter.  “I’ll come by in a while.  Are you in for the morning?”

“Oh, yes.  Unpacking and laundry and one thing and another.  Do come by whenever!  I’ll make coffee.”

“Fine.”

“And feel free to invite the young lady!” Mr. Bernhart smiled.  Clara stiffened beside Enoch.  “It’d be a pleasure to meet her properly.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bernhart,” Enoch said severely.  Mr. Bernhart gave him a last resplendent grin and trotted through the lobby doors.

Clara made a low ‘hrh’ noise.  “So you’re friends.”

“He’s very ingratiating,” Enoch said, closing the window again.  He itched for a cigarette.  Clara didn’t like them.  “Hard to avoid.”

“Clearly.”

Enoch went back over to the crossword and shook his head to clear it.  Ridiculous man.  Ridiculous building.  He had no business being in the city.  He needed to wrap this whole stupid situation up sooner rather than later or he was going to start perking up at every little summons.

He put his reading glasses back on his face and tuned out the world, focusing on the black and white squares before him and waiting for Clara to get bored.

After four or five silent minutes, she asked, “Have you had any luck?”

“None. Any ideas for a five-letter word meaning ‘well-seasoned’?”

“What?” Clara snapped.  “No!  I mean for work!”

Enoch looked at her and lifted his eyebrows.  Clara pressed her lips together and scowled.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.  “I mean for work.  Have you dealt with any more people?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have told you,” Enoch replied, not unkindly.  “It takes time to root them all out.  I didn’t ask earlier: how was church?”

“Fine.  Standard stuff.”  Clara used one booted foot to scrape against the other.  “They miss you.”

Enoch missed them.  He felt a rush of affection for the girl, paired with the strugglesome urge to hold her in his arms, but the feeling fitted him like a bad coat and his shoulders tensed under the onslaught.  He filled in ‘TOSCA.’  

“You’re going to know when it’s all over, Miss Clara Deen,” he said.  “I’ll be knocking on your door.”

“Yeah,” Clara said, looking down at the driveway.  “Okay.  I should scoot.”

“You don’t want to meet Mr. Bernhart?”

Clara wrinkled her nose.  “I think I’ve seen enough.  He’s… something else.”

A twitch ran along the top of his lip and tried to drag a corner up; Enoch crushed it.  He folded the paper over and took his reading glasses off.  “I’ll walk you down.”

* * *

“This is new,” Enoch gruffed, peering down at the Red Edge Peperomia.  “It’s been overwatered.”

“Yes, I imagine Timothy is to blame for that,” Mr. Bernhart agreed.  “Nice boy, but no more wit than God gave a table coaster.”

Enoch lifted a few of the floppy red-rimmed leaves, admiring the pale pinkness of the stems.  If they were only wet, they’d look like exposed flesh.  “Hmm.”

“Do you think it’ll be all right?” Mr. Bernhart asked.  He appeared at Enoch’s side in a humid plume of soap-smell.  His skin was still a bit flushed from the heat of the shower he’d taken just before Enoch arrived.  He radiated warmth, a patch of blooming heat in the shady coolness of the living room.

“The leaves are more or less succulent,” Enoch said.  “It should be fine on the water it has now.  I’d keep it out of the watering rotation for the week and see what that does.”

“I trust your expertise.  I’m just glad to know it will be in good hands.”  Mr. Bernhart reached out and tilted one of the red-edged leaves with his fingertips.  “I’m afraid I fret about them when I’m away.”

“You have a lot of plants for someone who doesn’t have the time to take care of them.”

Mr. Bernhart grinned crookedly at him, as if Enoch had made a joke.  He supposed he had, if Mr. Bernhart was determined to laugh at it, but Enoch wasn’t entirely sure he’d done it intentionally.  Mr. Bernhart introduced that kind of uncertainty of purpose into a lot of Enoch’s interactions with him.  

“I’ve always thought that a house isn’t really a home unless there are living things in it,” Mr. Bernhart replied.  “Don’t you agree?  They keep me feeling lively, too.  And I can’t keep animals around.  I like antiques too much.”

Mr. Bernhart did like antiques.  The richly papered walls of his apartment were festooned with odd paintings and portraits of people he freely admitted he didn’t personally know, while little trinkets of porcelain and wrought-iron and exotic objets d’art peeped out of his big bookshelves and window ledges.  Mr. Bernhart kept the parquet floors dressed with oriental rugs (doubtlessly the only things that kept his downstairs neighbors from complaining about the music and the dancing) and the two sofas in the light-filled living room were elaborate chartreuse-green French things heaped with throw pillows and a violet blanket.  A coffee table and wingback chairs stood waiting and ready for company at a moment’s notice.  The place often smelled of cedar and vanilla, and now, as ever, some kind of mellow rock'n'roll was playing somewhere in the flat.

Enoch felt very welcomed here and it bothered him.  He shouldn’t be comfortable here, not when he kept his own apartment so extremely functional.  His bedroom had a bed and a dresser, his living room had one chair, and his dining table had two seats.  He didn’t like having a lot of things and if it weren’t for the mugs and spoons and weird little knickknacks that had immigrated from the far corners of the globe to nest in his kitchen cabinets, the apartment would have remained as utilitarian and clean as he’d found it.  

(He didn’t know how those mugs and spoons had found him, but he was certain Mr. Bernhart had been the medium.  It didn’t seem probable that anyone would actually make a mug that said “I Left My Heart in Delaware,” and it seemed still less likely that he would ever accept such a gift, but since he couldn’t quite imagine Mr. Bernhart sneaking into his apartment and depositing such trash without his notice, Enoch had to assume that some species of osmosis was to blame.)

“Hm.”  Enoch turned his attention to the bonsai collection and took a distracted sip from his cup of coffee.  He didn’t remember accepting the cup of coffee either.  It had cream and sugar in it and left a thin coat of mellow sweetness on his tongue when he swallowed.  

He knew he hadn’t told Mr. Bernhart that he liked his coffee this way.  It was very strange.  For all his bright-eyed looks and overwhelming hospitality, Mr. Bernhart didn’t seem like the type to watch and memorize a person’s actions so closely.  Enoch would have to keep an eye on him and see if he did this to anyone else.

“Was the young lady not able to come by?”

“Clara?  No.  She had to get home.”  Enoch turned his head and peered at Mr. Bernhart a little.  “She said you’d met.”

“Just in the lobby,” Mr. Bernhart shrugged, lifting his cup of black coffee to his mouth.  “You know how it is, you come in, see a new face, shoot the breeze a little while you wait for the concierge to come back.  At least I hope it was her!  Blonde?  Serene?  Sort of young Kate Winslet thing to her?”

“Sounds like her.”  Enoch looked over the edge of his reading glasses.  “She said you accosted her.”

Mr. Bernhart’s smile dropped off of his face.  “Dear God!  I apologize—perhaps I was forward.  Did she seem very offended?  I’d hate to be off on the wrong foot with her.”

Enoch tilted his head and twitched an eyebrow.  “I wouldn’t worry about it.  She’s prone to hyperbole.  Besides, she seemed to think you were handsome.”

Mr. Bernhart grinned and lifted his coffee cup to his mouth with a wiggle of his head.  “Oh, don’t tease.  She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

Enoch was always uncomfortable talking about his relation to Clara.  He let it show on his face.  “No.  God-daughter.”

“Ahh,” Mr. Bernhart said, nodding his head understandingly.  “That’s an interesting office to fill.  I am Gregory’s god-father and I’m never quite sure if I’m doing it right.”

Enoch also didn’t care to talk about Mr. Bernhart’s nephews, but he supposed the change of subject was meant as a courtesy.  “That’s the little one?”

“Yes.  And then someone on the father’s side is Wirt’s god-father, and Ginny is Wirt’s god-mother.  I wonder who I’m matched up with for Gregory…”

Enoch opened his mouth.  Something in the kitchen dinged.

“That will be lunch!  I expect you’re staying?”  Mr. Bernhart asked.  Enoch watched him zip into the kitchen, apparently not waiting for a response from his guest.

Enoch squinted at the pretty little Bald Cypress bonsai.  Here was the root of Mr. Bernhart’s horticultural interest: his bonsai were flawless and only ever needed intelligent attention to keep them in tip-top shape.  Enoch had at least a word or two of criticism for everything but these plants, and since he was out from under his host’s eye he leaned close and abandoned his affected disinterest.  They were absolutely perfect, each a well-carved slice of a world: tiny, beautiful, and ever-so cruel.  It was an odd interest for a man as sweet as Mr. Bernhart to have.  The plant-rescues and the cut daisies were reasonable, but the beautiful stunting, twisting, and torturing of a tree?  

One really had to wonder.

Mr. Bernhart appeared moments later with enormous salad bowl, filled with enough greens to feed six and topped with pink slices of chilled lamb, white chunks of goat cheese, and a vinaigrette so tart and fragrant that even from a few feet of distance Enoch’s mouth began to water.  No, he had not intended to stay for lunch.

“I can’t stay long,” he said, annoyed at himself the minute the limp protest passed his lips.  

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to detain you,” Mr. Bernhart smiled.  “But after all the care you’ve given my babies over these weeks, the very least I can do is feed you.  Wine?”

Enoch turned down that offer, at least, and sat down to lunch.  Mr. Bernhart served him a massive portion, which was what people usually did for men Enoch’s size, but then served himself an equally hefty helping.  Mr. Bernhart sat down and began talking about his trip while Enoch quietly ate.

If it had been anyone else across from him, Enoch was sure he would’ve found Mr. Bernhart’s behavior piggish.  Food disappeared at a rapid clip but Enoch never seemed to catch Mr. Bernhart with his mouth full.  He distinctly observed the way Mr. Bernhart dipped in for seconds and thirds.

The huge salad bowl was nearly empty by the time Enoch was finished with his plate.  Just a few moments after he rejected the offer of more, the bowl looked as if it had been licked clean.

After the entree, Mr. Bernhart didn’t slow down.  He immediately began dipping those long fingers into the nearby fruit bowl and set to peeling one clementine after another, leaving the ripped peels on his plate and stacking a mighty little offering of skinned fruits between them.  He talked all the while and yet the little flayed balls of citrus still disappeared at an alarming rate, although Enoch only took one or two himself.

Where did he put it all?  Mr. Bernhart was slim, gangly really, all long fingers and visible bones.  Did he eat so much on a regular basis?  How did he stay as he was, so sleek and suave and, well, pretty?

(No wonder he made his living from the stage, if he was so good-looking and had such a distracting voice.  He was altogether too pretty for Bartholomew.  Maybe there was some kind of gratitude complex in there.  Or maybe it was the blindness.  What did Mr. Bernhart see when he looked at Bartholomew?  For that matter, what did he see when he looked at Enoch?)

At last, Mr. Bernhart sat back and heaved a sweet, satisfied sigh.  

“I do love lamb,” he mused, dragging a fingertip through the raspberry vinaigrette left on his plate.  He kissed the taste off of his skin, the tip of his tongue flicking over his procheilon in the first bite Enoch had yet seen him take.  “You can taste the cuteness.”

Enoch snorted in surprise.  “Isn’t that PETA’s argument?”

“No one has done more to advance the humane cause of meat-eaters than them,” Mr. Bernhart said happily.  “Chickens are unhappy in their ghastly conditions?  I have the solution!  I am only too pleased to put them out of their misery.”

Enoch shook his head.  

“Speaking of farming, did you get the peppers?” Mr. Bernhart asked.  “It slipped my mind to ask Bartholomew and he never tells me these things unless I ask him.  I hope he was able to get them before they got over-ripe…”

“They were fine,” Enoch said.  He’d eaten them as raw as apples, still sun-warm and juicy.  They had been sweeter and more succulent than any fruit he’d had this season.  “Thank you.”

Mr. Bernhart glowed.  “I’m so glad you liked them!  I always think they’re a treat.”

“Mm,” Enoch said, leaning back and heaving a sigh of his own.  A smile was tugging at his lips.  The air was warm and the food had been good, and he could see why people liked to take naps in the afternoon.  Enoch could easily imagine Mr. Bernhart being the type to enjoy a nap in a sun-filled bedroom, dozing on the covers.  He probably slept with the bedroom door open, entirely unconcerned that anything or anyone would ever disturb his sleep; or at least not disturb it in an unwelcome way.

Enoch sat forward.  “I should go.”

“Oh,” Mr. Bernhart said, blinking quickly.  Enoch was already standing.  “Of course!  That’s right, I’m sorry, I’ve been chewing your ear off.”

Mr. Bernhart took Enoch’s plate and Enoch wanted to kick himself.  “Do you need help with the—”

“No!  Of course not.  You’re a guest, you don’t do dishes,” Mr. Bernhart smiled.  “Let me just wrap up a little something for you.”

“There’s more?” Enoch blurted, incredulous.

“Salads don’t ding!  I made molasses cookies.  Let me just…”

Mr. Bernhart dithered in the kitchen for a few moments and came out with a tupperware box heaped with fragrant cookies.  “Lid’s on the bottom, so when you eat enough to close it you can keep them fresh.  Don’t get any funny ideas about this box.  I want it back, you know.”

“I’ll try and take good care of it,” Enoch remarked dryly.  “If you travel, I’ll drop it off with your nephews.”

“Oh, I’ll be around for a bit.  Going to be very much a homebody for the next several weeks, just a few shows here and there.  I’m working on a little recording with Connie—I was her Scarpia years back and she wanted me to come on and do something menacing and perverse for her album.  In fact, if you have any ideas…!”

Enoch’s pleasantly full stomach chose that moment to take a dizzy dip.  He frowned.  “Hmm.”

Mr. Bernhart laughed brightly and put the cookies in his hands.  “Off you go, young man.  Thank you for stopping by on such short notice!  I’m sure I’ll see you around much more, now that I’m home for a bit.”

“Right,” Enoch said, and left.

* * *

Enoch was in his pajamas and smoking his last cigarette before bed as he watched the street below.  The apartment was settling down for the night and he listened to the evening noises, his head tilted in contemplation of the outside world.

He liked to keep his apartment pretty dim around sunset.  It made it easier to sleep.  It wasn’t quite dark yet.  If the clouds stayed away they might even have stars.

The next noise was the sound of a safety being disengaged, and then there came the shivery sensation of a piece of metal nudging up to his scalp.

“Fucker,” someone whispered.

That was enough.

Enoch turned into the gun, pushing his assailant’s arm down into a brutal twist.  His attacker let out a bark and Enoch planted his left elbow at the base of the man’s spine, snapping the gun out of his fingers.  The man fell to the floor and Enoch took a step back, wanting to keep his ankles and knees out of range, and the man sprang up unsteadily.

“Stay down or I’ll hit you again,” Enoch warned him.  The attacker lunged forward.

Enoch brought the butt of the pistol up and bashed it into the young man’s masked face, breaking his nose with a wet _snap_.  The man let out a cry muffled by his balaclava and dropped to the floor, the second blow to the head ruining his equilibrium.

Enoch pulled the belt of his bathrobe loose and took a knee beside his dazed opponent.  This was probably going to be a long evening, so he bound the man’s wrists and ankles in a quick hogtie and got back up to draw all the blinds on the windows before he turned on any of the lights.  

He pulled off the balaclava as the young man began to wrestle against his restraints.  Even beneath the blood and the broken nose, Enoch didn’t recognize his face.

Enoch took a seat in his armchair and laid the gun in his lap.  “Who sent you.”

“Fug kyou.”

“Son, we’re going to have a very long night together if you can’t manage to answer a simple question,” Enoch said calmly.  “Who sent you.”

The young man writhed on his belly, trying to pull his arms forward and contorting himself in an even deeper arch.  “Leb me go!”

“I don’t think so.  Who sent you?”

The young man spat a mouthful of blood on Enoch’s parquet floor.  Enoch scowled and used his foot to turn the young man’s face up to look at him.  The young man glared through the blood.  Enoch deepened the scowl and pointed the gun at the young man’s broken nose.

“Son, you need to think very seriously about who you’re talking to,” Enoch intoned.  “I’m not going to turn you loose to the police unless you tell me what I want to know.”

“I’mb nod dalking.”

“If you don’t watch your step I’m going to take great satisfaction in watching you bleed out on my floor.  I wouldn’t even have to hide your body, since you broke into my home in a balaclava in September.  It’s legal for me to use lethal force to defend myself.”

The young man paled and thrashed in his bonds.  Enoch watched as the knot in his bathrobe belt strained and held.  There were perks to living on a farm.  You learned how to tie up a pig.

Hmm.  What if the little bastard didn’t talk soon?  Enoch was probably going to have to really scare him.  He had a silencer somewhere in his coat closet.  Hell, he had a couple of good knives, and a very clean bathtub, if it really came down to it.

He’d have it out of him sooner or later.

Enoch let the young man stew in his own juices for a little while, taking the time to dig in the young man’s pockets.  There was nothing of use except a little extra ammunition, which Enoch immediately pocketed.  The lack of a phone was something of a surprise.  The young man had to have a stash bag somewhere.  

Enoch left him in the middle of the living room to do a sweep of the apartment, just in case.  The bag must be elsewhere.  He’d have to look outside in the morning.

When he got back to the living room, Enoch could see that the young man was trying to edge towards the landline.  He seized the young man’s bound joints and dragged him back to the center of the room, none too gently.  

“At this rate you’re going to make me angry,” Enoch said.  “Let’s go into the bathroom for a while, why don’t we.  I’d prefer not to have to clean up out here.”

The doorbell rang.  Enoch and the young man both froze, stiff with surprise.  Enoch glared hard and pushed the tip of the gun into the man’s ear.  

“Who is it?” he growled at the young man.

“I don’b know!”

“Don’t lie to me,” Enoch said, turning off the safety.  “Who’s at the door?”

“I’mb alone!” the young man exclaimed.  “I swear I’mb alone!”

Enoch let out a little snarl and picked up the bloody balaclava.  He balled the fabric up and stuffed it in the young man’s mouth, pushing it back until he was sure the young man couldn’t spit it out.  He watched the young man thrash and writhe for a moment.  When he was sure that breathing would be difficult but not impossible, Enoch moved carefully to the door, just in time for the bell to ring again.

He used the peephole and nearly snarled once more.  Of course Mr. Bernhart would come by right at this moment.  Damn it!  He had to answer or Mr. Bernhart would keep ringing; he'd done it before.  Enoch opened the door just a crack.

“What is it, Mr. Bernhart,” Enoch snapped.

Mr. Bernhart was standing in the hallway with a brilliant smile on his face.  “Good evening, Enoch!  Hope you’re well.”

“What _is_ it, Mr. Bernhart?” he pushed.  He really thought maybe Bartholomew had been right about Mr. Bernhart being legally blind—if the man could look Enoch full in the face like that and still not read his expression…

“Oh, I’m just popping by to say hello,” Mr. Bernhart said, taking a step closer.  Enoch couldn't help but move back a little.  The door swung very slightly further open.  “Came to offer a nightcap, if you were feeling up to it.”

“I’m not.  Is that all?”  Behind him, he could hear the young man wriggling violently.

Mr. Bernhart’s smile went sheepish and he dipped his head briefly.  “Ah, you’ve caught me.  I did have one little ulterior motive, to be very honest with you.”

“I can’t do anything for your plants right—”

“Oh, no, no.  Although I would consider this a favor in a certain sense!  You see, I’ve got this extra ticket to a concert tomorrow, and it just popped into my head to ask you if you’d care to—”

The young man began to grunt and moan behind the gag.  Mr. Bernhart stopped short and blinked.  

Enoch began to close the door.

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Bernhart asked.  He put a hand against the door and pushed himself up on his toes, trying to get up towards Enoch’s face.  “Are you well?  You don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Enoch said, “but I can’t talk now.  Good night, Mister—”

The young man grunted again, louder this time, again and again.  He was trying to yell.  Enoch involuntarily turned his head back and gave him a hateful look.  

“Enoch, what on earth is going—oh!”

Enoch snapped back to face Mr. Bernhart and found him peering around Enoch’s right side and into the living room.  From Mr. Bernhart’s wide eyes and expression of surprise, Enoch could tell that he’d seen the young man.  

Enoch shuffled around to put himself between Mr. Bernhart and his uninvited visitor.  Mr. Bernhart stared into the middle distance around Enoch’s chest for a moment and then blinked rapidly, looking rather shyly up towards Enoch’s face.  Enoch realized, with some surprise, that Mr. Bernhart was blushing.

Mr. Bernhart took a leaping step back.  Enoch reached after him, not sure what he’d do if he even caught him.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Enoch protested, hating himself for being such a damned fool.

Mr. Bernhart let out a shrill laughing noise and covered his mouth with his hand.  He blushed an even deeper red and turned his gaze to the floor, nervously fluttering a hand between Enoch and his eyes.

“Good grief, man, what else can it possibly be?” Mr. Bernhart cried.  “Oh my God, you’re even in your bathrobe—this is so embarrassing!  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-I-I’ll go.  I’m going.”

A light went on in Enoch’s head.  His mouth popped open and his stomach turned over, his whole body realizing just what Mr. Bernhart thought he was up to.  “No.  No, no, nonono no.  This isn’t—”

“Enoch!  I’m not _new_.  You’ve got… a young person, all in black, bound and gagged in your—” Mr. Bernhart covered his mouth again, apparently to shut himself up, and looked anywhere but at Enoch.  He was red as a rose to the hairline.  “I’m so sorry.  I’ll go.  I didn’t realize I was interrupting.  You should’ve just told me to—I beg your pardon, I beg the young person's pardon, please excuse me!”

Enoch felt a thick, rising swamp of embarrassment come up his own neck, watching Mr. Bernhart writhe uncomfortably in the hallway.  Damn it.  Damn it.  It was better than having Mr. Bernhart actually see what was going on, but… damn it.

“Good night,” Enoch choked.  

Mr. Bernhart let out that shrill laugh again.  “A very good night!  I mean—that is—oh, my God, I’m so sorry.  Excuse me.  Close the door on me, please.  Good night!  Good bye.”

Enoch took a step back into his apartment and closed the door.  He threw the locks and listened for the sound of Mr. Bernhart’s retreat.  There was a pregnant pause and then a rather harried noise of escape.

Enoch panted out a hot, humiliated breath.  He slowly turned to look at the young man.

The young man looked up at him, saw his expression, and the defiance fell out of his young face like oil slid down a hot pan.  His eyes went wide as saucers.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Enoch growled, embarrassment sticking like plaque in his veins.  “I don’t care about cleaning up.  We can do this right here.”

* * *

Enoch got the name of the person the young man was working for.  He relayed that information to some of his colleagues and fellow interested parties, with the clear implication that he wasn’t going to be able to be quite so good an accountant anymore, if he felt himself to be under such constant personal attack.

A few days after dropping that word to the interested parties, he received a handsome apology and every assurance that no more trouble would be forthcoming from that particular direction.  He expressed his appreciation for the reassurance and regretted that he couldn’t quite point anyone in the direction the young man had taken when he’d at last exited Enoch’s apartment.

Another one down.  Clara would be glad to hear it.  Soon he’d be secure enough to move back out to the country, but not just yet.

Hopefully he’d work up the nerve to ring Mr. Bernhart’s doorbell before he went back home.


End file.
